Apparently, there is nothing more peaceful, nothing
more restful, nothing more soothing, nothing more permeated with the
spirit of _dolce far niente_, than the American farmer on his wagon in a
narrow road with an auto behind him. The grunt of the horn invariably
stirs in him memories of his aged grandmother, dead these twenty years,
and he falls a wondering whether he was really as kind to her as he
might have been. If the road is just wide enough for one vehicle, he
moves along pensively. If it is wide enough for two vehicles, he throws
his horses straight across the road and enters upon a prolonged
examination of his rear axle. If the road is wide enough for three
vehicles, he drives zigzag. The necessity of conserving our natural
resources would seem to be a meaningless phrase when we consider the
natural resources of an American farmer in front of an automobile.
The law and the courts press hard on the autoist. Since the invention of
the automobile fine, the position of justice of the peace has become one
of the highest offices in the gift of the nation. The city magistrate is
a kindred soul.
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